


No one ever gets to me (until now)

by JaneDoes



Category: Fleabag (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 12:27:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneDoes/pseuds/JaneDoes
Summary: Priest? What priest?





	No one ever gets to me (until now)

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I'm the only person who wanted this.

_ Oh god, late again. I’m late because I’m dreading meeting my sister because I don’t really want to see her and endure more of her passive-aggressive scorn. _

_ I'm also dreading it because I’m wearing a top I stole from her. Looks better on me anyway. Red’s not her color. She bought it during one of her monthly reinvention phases. Makes her look like the mother of two children under three. She got Mum’s tits; I got Dad’s. _

_ Nevertheless, I agreed to go with her to this lecture to help us both grow as women and as feminists. _

_ Ah, good. There’s a cab. Totally skint, but I’ll figure something out. _

He will come this way, soon. Seventeen minutes in the morgue so far. It’s plenty of time to find the gift I’ve left him. It’s too long, in fact. It’s not like he’s having a cuppa with that insipid doll Molly. Then my car door opens, and I scrabble for the lock, but it’s too late, of course, and someone’s climbing into the back and the door slams again. I hold my hands up over the steering wheel. “I’m booked, sorry.”

“N-no. I’m in now, you have to take me.” 

“Get out.”

“You can’t refuse a ride, it’s illegal.”

“I can refuse whatever I like.”

“Can’t.” 

I stare back at her in the rear view mirror. Sharp brown eyes meet sharp brown eyes. Neither one of us will budge. “Get out.” 

“Uh-uh.”

Beat.

“Bloody—fine. Fine. Where?” She smirks, her fine red lips drawing into a perfect curl.

“Southwark Cathedral, please.” I turn around to protest.

“That’s on the other side of the river. That’s half an hour, at least!” 

_ I’ve leant forward to see his face better. Ooh, bit hot. High forehead, black hair combed back. Lovely crinkles around his eyes. Lush red mouth. _

“Yes, you’d better hit the gas.” 

I know where Sherlock will go next. There’s only one place he’s going next. But I wanted to see. I wanted to watch him go, follow along behind. So convinced of his own genius he doesn’t even think Moriarty could be ahead of him. (But I am. Always will be. And in the meantime. This tart. Something to play with. All work and no play makes Jim a dull boy, after all.) 

“And why are you going to Southwark Cathedral? Off to say your prayers?” 

_ Ecch. Creepy. _

“No, actually. I’m going to a lecture, a feminist lecture. With my sister. Have you been in England long?”

“What?”

“It’s just… your accent.” In the rearview mirror, her angular but strangely pretty face is guileless. She hadn’t meant it as a taunt. 

Tell that to my memories, tell that to the Year 9 boys, choosing me for the target of their taunts. Because I was smaller than they were, and pretty of face. They knew just how to get at me. I’d only just come from Ireland. Never wanted to come, never wanted to leave home, but Da walked out for a pint and never came back and Ma found work here. Dirty cold big city. Filthy sick place. 

I did manage to teach a few of them though. Taught them who James Moriarty was. By the time they figured it out, it was too late for them. The canteen server had to go as well, to get the job done. She really should have checked the cans better. When they’re bulgy, the contents might have gone off. You can get botulism that way! Young Jim was lucky; he had a throat infection and wasn’t at school the day they all got ill. So. Just so. 

She is lovely. Her skin is like milk. Her hair as black as mine, eyes the same brown. She scans the streets, scans the inside of the cab, never stopping, taking everything in. Sharp. I’d almost think she’s got potential. Surely she’s not using it. But she could. With coaching. With a mentor. 

“Tell me. Do you ever dream of revenge?” 

_ Strangest thing a cabbie has ever asked me, and that’s saying a lot. _

“Revenge? Against whom? For what?” 

“Anyone who’s wronged you.” I miscalculated. This doesn’t tempt her; it unsettles her. Her eyes sweep side to side, avoiding my gaze. There is a long pause, and I begin to feel something I’ve never felt before: regret. I’m being worse than tiresome, goading her like this for my own entertainment. Finally she speaks, her tone incongruously cheery and her smile bright.

“I’m my own worst enemy.”

“What did you do?” _ His voice is low, but musical. He’s a little too excited to hear about my disasters. He may be a creep, but he’s quite hot. _

“I killed my best friend.” _ This doesn’t spark the reaction I’d anticipated. Where I’d expected disgust, or pity, I’ve got his wide-eyed attention. He’s got this look on his face I can’t even parse. His eyes are wide and serious, and the tiniest hint of a smile plays around his warm red lips. _

“And how’d you do that?” _ Again that weird tone in his voice. Low, and he sounds… he sounds turned on. Like I’m telling him a dirty story. Well, there you go. Maybe I won’t have to get my tits out to cover the fare. _

“I fucked her boyfriend. And when she found out he’d cheated, she decided to walk into a bicycle path so she’d be hurt and he’d come to her side. But it didn’t go to plan. The bicycle wreck spilled into the road. She died. The bicyclist died. And an old man who ran over them with his car died of a heart attack when he saw what he’d done.”

“You are evil. Evil.” _ His eyes shone. _

“Thank you, yes.” She’s as British as anyone I’ve ever met. Stiff upper lip. Just that perfect well-bred, posh smile as though nothing was happening under the surface. But I know the difference. I made a left turn. She didn’t even notice.

“Anyone else?”

“Do I want revenge on anyone else? What are you, some sort of… Revenge Genie? Fairy Godfather of evil wishes?” _ He grins now, like a maniac. His eyes grow wide for a moment. _

“Oh yes. Something like that.” 

_ And that’s when I realize he’s taken a wrong turn. We’re heading away from the river instead of toward it. _

“Oh, god. Where are you taking me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Missed the turn. We’ll loop back, if that’s alright.” _ His voice is coy, higher-pitched now. Almost cartoonish. Deffo creepy. _

“As long as you’re not taking me under a bridge to rape and murder me.”

“Not unless you want me to.” _ Hot and creepy in equal measure. Fuck. We make eye contact in the rear-view mirror again. _

“Have at me. You can’t do anything worse to me than I’ve done to myself.” She stares back at me, then swipes at her hair, tucking it behind her ear. She’s got a grey birthmark like a thumbprint on her forehead, off to the side. It looks like a drunken priest tried to bless her on Ash Wednesday and missed. 

“Come and have a pint with me.” 

_ A pint. With a mad (hot) Irish cabbie who’s already kidnapped me. I look at my watch. I’ve missed the first twenty minutes of the lecture. I pivot over into the front jump seat and lean into the small window between his seat and mine. We’re at a red light, and he turns his face to me. We are close enough to kiss. I feel his breath on my face. His eyes dart between my eyes and my lips. _

“I’ve got a bottle of whiskey at mine.” 

“Where?” 

_ I cringe. He’s not going to like my answer. _

“Dartmouth Park.” _ It’s pretty far. He turns the car around. _

_ Out of the car, he’s shorter than I thought, but I guess that goes with the delicate face. Bookish, almost. I scrabble my key into the door and we are through. _

As soon as the door closes, she drops her bag and lets her coat slide off her shoulders. They stand, nearly touching, breathing each other’s air. He raises one finger and places it gently on her lips, tracing across them. She opens her mouth slightly and flicks her delicate tongue out to touch his fingertip. The wetness serves as a promise of what’s to come and he shivers, then slides his hand around to the back of her head, taking control. His thumb replaces his fingertip on her mouth, and she opens her mouth and draws it in, biting it gently, then harder. His breath flares hot through his nostrils and he pulls her to his mouth, finally kissing her, kissing that mouth so sharp, so cunning. He kisses her very softly at first, but he wants to devour her. He wants to take her in. Get inside her, get her inside him. 

She pushes him away, steps out of her shoes, peels her soft red sweater off, shimmies out of her jeans, and stands there before him in her black bra and a pair of purple knickers. He looks her up and down, smirking, then puts his hands around her neck and squeezes, firmly but not painfully. Just enough to make the point. He is in control.

He doesn’t realize how this makes her feel. How it’s now very clear that she may well have gone too far this time, picked up the wrong guy, and will be found in three days’ time, naked and sprawled across her bed, beginning to bloat. It’s good she hasn’t got a cat, she thinks. But there’s no fight. Her instincts aren’t telling her to flee, or to strike out at him. Instead she surrenders. If this is going to be it, then this is going to be it. She closes her eyes, and a soft rush fills her head. She’s tingling all over, especially between her legs. He gives her a little shake, and she relaxes. She’s not in control anymore, and any mistakes made are not her fault. Nothing, now, is her fault. And that feels like some kind of sacrament. 

He lets go of her neck and steps closer, kissing her very slowly and deliberately. He figures the bedroom must be down that hall, so he puts his hands on her shoulders, walking her backward down toward the open door, kissing her all the way.

Through the door, he pushes her down to the floor. 

“Kneel.” His voice is low and clear, commanding. She complies, looking up at him with her head hanging back, her lips slightly parted and her eyes wide. She raises her hands to him, to his clothes. She means to begin untucking his shirt, to open his belt buckle. He takes her hands in his and gently pushes them down again. “Just kneel.” He raises his hands to her face, stroking her chin and jaw delicately, gently brushing her hair back to reveal that misguided blessing again. He touches it lightly with a fingertip, and she shivers. Finally, he begins to undress himself. 

_ God, he’s intense. _

All my life I’ve been searching for a distraction. 

_ All my life I’ve been searching for absolution. _

All my life I’ve been searching.

_ All my life. _

  



End file.
